


Maybe you Should Have Thought this Through

by orphan_account



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Awkward Boners, Awkward Sexual Situations, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Large Cock, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pretty much everything is awkward, Snooping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-07-14 07:52:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7161272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>-       They should put a warning label on 'Spartax Jax' cheese crackers. Something like " This product makes a huge mess, can be seriously addicting to any being that eats more than a couple of pieces, and causes a distinct lapse in judgement and inhibition control." But that last one probably didn't exist in the first place.        -</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of the characters in this story. Marvel does. I did make up the food "Spartax Jax" because I figured every planet must have some type of Goldfish snack type thing to it. I am fully okay with people using it though, as it would be hilarious to see a reference in Hollywood and know where it came from. So there.  
> P.S. the word 'procyon' refers to Rocket, its the genus section of raccoons here on Earth. Apparently it's a constellation as well.

The Holo-screen in Rocket’s room lit up with flashes of gray and white, playing some animated Terran flick. It was probably a movie designed for kids, but that never stopped Peter from sitting on his ass and guzzling down ‘shitty Xandarian booze’ while laughing at the corny jokes. For that matter, Rocket got into the exact same habit after about the fifth movie. “Something about these movies really sucks ya in, right? Huh.” And to think he didn’t believe Quill when he was watching Sleeping Beauty for like the thousandth flarking time. He reached out to grab a bunch of Spartax Jax next to him on the bed and shoveled them into his mouth. Spewing a bunch of crumbs everywhere, he yells at the screen, “Why the hell are ya singing about it? Get over yerself, ya idiot.”  
These humie characters never seemed to suck it up and deal with their stupid lives or the problems they caused. _Oh no, my parents died at sea, and now I’m stuck in this castle with my sister, and I’m all alone!_ And they’re still complaining about all of it.  
“You’re in a primitive society with little to no welding skills. Just break the chains and get out!” Guess they don’t carry around useful things like lock picks or beam saws on Earth. Not that anyone in this quadrant would use metal to bind someone. It’s weak, and most of the time, escape means going out into space, which brings its own problems to the table.

“Come on, you froze the entire bay. It’s just a flimsy chain.”

 

“Fire’s not gonna help, you’re dying.”

 

“Oh. I guess she can break them. Cool.” Hah. That was a joke. Rocket snorts, and grabs another handful of the snack chips on his side. He doesn’t need to defend his commentary. Any normal person would do the same thing with these movies. And Quill was so happy when Kitty brought these vid files off of Earth, so why wouldn’t Rocket surreptitiously hack into his database and watch them as well, you know? Besides, he browsed through all of the other folders, and not telling the other Guardians about the almost excessive amount of Terran porn he had hidden there left Rocket feeling like he owed him as much. But he’s the ‘bad’ one, the little ‘creep who needs to mind his own business’ and all that. The word ‘privacy’ makes him want to tear out his implants with a rusty screwdriver. Who hides things anyway? People who want him to snoop, that’s who.  
“Welp, you should have thought about that before you froze her heart. Let it go, alright?” He laughs for real this time, and turns around to see Quill’s reaction.

Oh right. He’s in the shower.

  
That’s fine. He wasn’t looking for validation or nothin’. Whatever.

Sighing quietly, Rocket grasps around in the cardboard package for more of the cheesy star-shaped crackers to barely taste. But the box is empty. “What the hell?” he questions quietly, and lifts up the box to shake in confirmation. All he picks up is the soft splatter of crumbs banging against the sides. Briefly, he considers putting the box down, like he always does, of course. Nah. He tips it backward and pours the rest into his mouth (and also face, because the box is almost as big as he is and it’s hard to maneuver, alright?) After finishing off the box and not frantically cleaning his fur for the last specks of cheesy goodness, he tosses the box clear across the room. Thankfully, it lands on the pile of equally-empty-and-also-discarded boxes of Spartax Jax (taste the tyranny), not the Hadron Enforcer or his beer crate of modge-podge explosives. Not that it matters, he’s at least 95% sure he deactivated them a couple of days ago.  
Rocket smacks his tongue a couple of times and pauses the vid file, then gets up and heads out to the galley. He glances back to make sure no one can see him, then climbs up the counter to reach the cupboard and top shelf. After opening the door, he breathes in relief upon seeing the neon packaging of the Spartax Jax, which for some reason comes from Xandar. Guess Spartax has its own problems to deal with. He grabs the box carefully, as to not make any noise, and pulls it out. It’s completely empty. And he ate all of it, then put it back for Peter or Gamora to take care of it. Angrily, he growls, throws the box against the counter, and jumps off to the floor. “It’s alright, Rocket.” He says to himself silently. “You can make it without the crunchy, delicious, savory, cheese stars for a couple of days. You’re stronger than a cracker.”  
He walks (pouts) to the corridor to look out the window of the Milano. Outside, a huge purple planetoid floats silently beyond the wisps of the Magellanic cloud. The stars actually brighten up the quadrant, and for a second, Rocket zones out into the void in something short of awe.

Alright. That’s enough introspection for now. Rocket’s hungry.

 

“Quill.”

 

He’s in the shower, there’s no way he could have heard that. Rocket takes a couple of steps toward the shower room. “QUILL.” This time he shouts it, in the right direction as well. Still no response. He glances at the ground where Peter dropped all of his stuff and sees his headphones and the Walkman among his Ravager garb.  
Maybe he’s just deaf.  
He stomps over to the sliding glass door (transparency setting was thankfully set to an almost opaque shade) and yells “QUILL!” The big idiot still doesn’t hear a thing. Wearing those headphones all of the time can’t help, either. Just to make sure he’s in there, Rocket leans an ear to the door, and hears the unmistakable sound of Peter and an old Terran tune.

 

“Hooked on a feelin’-“Figures, it’s this one.

“-I’m high on Believin’”

“But you’re in love with me”  
One more verse, get ready for it…

 

“Hooked on a feelin!” Rocket extends a claw and scrapes down the metal siding of the door as hard as he can, smirking when he hears the soap fall to the floor and Peter scream like a prepubescent girl. There are always perks to having claws in a metal spaceship. Always.  
“What the hell, Rocket?” He whines over the sound of water running. Rocket can picture the way his face would screw up out of anger. Most would find Peter attractive, with his curled red-brown hair, and his deep blue eyes, or his chiseled jaw and body, but Rocket doesn’t really see it. Not since the thirtieth time he called himself Star-Lord and looked crestfallen when no one reciprocated, anyway.  
“I’m hungry, and we’re out of snacks.”  
Peter turns off the water and audibly sighs. “That’s what you wanted? Dude, just wait until Drax and Gamora get back. We don’t have any extra credits to spend. And I saw a box in the kitchen, like five seconds ago.” The raccoon lowers his eyebrows and twitches his nose. ”No, there wasn’t one in there.” He lies, or at least, partly lies: he only put it there to trick ya into thinking he didn’t eat all of ‘em.

“Holy shit, how do you eat that much? Those boxes are like half your size, and I bought three of them a couple of days ago.”

“Shut up, Quill. You don’t have implants to feed; those things take a lot of energy to keep running.” Now you’ve done it, _Star-prince_. Rocket brought out the big guns: the pity card with an emphasis on “illegal experimentation side effects.” Like it’s his fault those things are so flarking addicting. Xandar should put a warning label on them or somethin’. Peter breathes out silently, and lowers his voice a little in placation. “I was a teenager once, I know what it’s like to have to eat a bunch. I still do, ‘smatter of fact. But, you’re gonna be fine. I’ll message Gamora to pick them up on their way back” He walks up to the door, and slides it open to step out into the corridor.  
“Can’t you wait for me to get out of the shower before you give me 20 questions?” The half-Terran lets one foot rest above the tiled step as he talks. ”We’ve got like two days to go before the rest of the team heads back from Hala. You and I need to not kill each other until then.” Rocket rolls his eyes at that remark, and huffs through his nose.” Oh, so I’m the violent one. Typical humie blaming the furry little monster. You know, you ain’t no angel neither. And besides, we get along pretty…”  
He trails off as the steam clears out of the room. Rocket can pick out the subtle hints of purple in his eyes now, the mist gone, and Peter watches him scan with a confused look. His hair is less managed, has a browner cast to it, and sticks out a bit more. Rocket glances at the scar on his right collarbone where he got cut by one of his (many, or at least he says so) past flings, and down each of his arms covered in a light dusting of golden brown. On the left side of his torso is another scar, right underneath the Serratus Anterior muscles over his ribs, and the Linea Alba, between his well-trained abs, has a cropping of gentle color.  
At this point, Rocket could have stopped, kept some vestige of his curiosity under wraps. But his eyes were already drifting lower.

 

And lower.

 

Peter coughs into his hand, knowing full well that the Procyon was scoping out his junk, but made no attempt to cover himself. And that raccoon tried to tell himself that he was distractedly staring at the closest thing to him, but he knows better. A well-groomed treasure trail widens out a bit near the base of his (mostly) soft cock, fanned around his scrotum and continued down his toned legs. The area surrounding it was completely shaven (some unnecessary sort of Terran ritual that removed fur and hair, although in this case, it seemed to work) and glistened, wet, in the light.  
Rocket tried to ignore the main bit of anatomy for as long as possible, but it was kinda hard to miss. From his angle, the penis looked to be about 5 inches long, and had a soft pink head. Not a bad thickness to it either (wait no what does that mean), especially not being hard. Behind it hung a heavy, nicely proportioned sack, full of Quill’s family jewels. It was disgusting. Not that Rocket was paying attention. Like, at all. He was distracted, anyway. His suit was bunching up near the start of his legs, ‘s all.

Peter seemed to receive the wrong message from the situation, though.

“Getting a little tight there, Rocky?” He winked, gesturing at the *allegedly* growing bulge in Rocket’s outfit.

Rocket didn’t say a word.  
He turned around as fast as he could and walked away.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn’t until Rocket closed the door to his room that he began to breathe again. The nerve of that flarknaard! He kicks an empty box of Spartax Jax into a bunch of pipes leaning against the wall. They fall to the metal floor and make a satisfying clattering sound, which proceeds to set off his touchy-as-hell cybernetics in his back to spark up his back. Rocket frantically scrambles among the mess for the probe, and jostles around a couple of detonators before he finds it. After resetting and taking care of the quite literal chip on his shoulder, the raccoon notices one of the detonators has been activated, and is sending out cobalt signal waves to the immense amount of volatile technology in the room.

               A high-pitched screech immediately emanates from the copious metal objects.

               Perfect.

               “Who cares? Let the big idiot and his precious ship blow up. Probably the best thing to happen in this quadrant in a long while.” Rocket ignores the whining for a couple of seconds, but neutralizes the effect as soon as he remembers Groot’s still recuperating on the other side of the ship.

               He gets to his feet, dusts himself off, and his cock is still hard as titanium steel. He lowers his face, rubs his eyes, and stretches the material away from his tenting crotch.

               “‘Course it is.” He sighs.

               Who even showers in the nude, anyway? Well, he does. And probably everyone else, but whatever. They don’t parade that fact around and walk like they own the place. Rocket remembers that Peter _wasn’t_ walking around like that with his junk hanging around, and he begins to wonder why he even cares about the issue, but he’s mad, alright? Quill’s got serious issues, and he knows just how to get under his skin.

               “Time to learn all ya secrets, humie.” He says with a shade of his old grin, and heads out to Peters section of the Milano deck.

* * *

 

Every step Rocket takes down the corridor is a bomb going off in his mind. He searches the area for any change of light, the littlest sound that tells him the half-human is near enough to see him, and twice he stops because his tail hits the wall. But still, he moves on. He has a mission to complete. The raccoon is a spy, a silent killer, seen only by those whom he wants to be. Oh, and the cameras lining the halls.

Shit.

               Rocket forgets every semblance of secrecy and espionage, making a quick dash to the opening outside the Terrans chamber. He somersaults in, and instantly trips over a chair, smacking his head into Peter’s bed. Landing on the floor with a muffled crash, he screams bloody murder on the inside, and bites his hand to keep from making any more noise. “That krutaker put his chair there on purpose. Does he have no sense of dignity?” He’s fuming now, and readies to kick the object out of the way, when he recalls that this isn’t his room, and he can’t leave any evidence behind. Calming himself down, he flicks on the light, and regrets doing so soon after.

               Peter’s sheets and blankets are thrown haphazardly on the bed, and on the floor next to it lies his ravager backpack, the contents literally dumped on the floor in a small pile. On his nightstand rests no less than six half-empty (definitely half-empty) glasses full of what Rocket hopes is water, and two cans advertising a type of soda. There are also several glass containers of alcohol, but since Rocket isn’t any better, he decides to let that one slide. “Geez, humie,” he says in revulsion. “Have ya ever heard of a garbage can?” He tentatively slides open a drawer under his nightstand and sees loose socks covering a bunch of weird boxes and a purple … something. Rocket quickly closes the drawer; he doesn’t need to know that much about Quill. Yet.

               He turns to the console table, to the front of the bed, and is surprised to see it looks kinda … orderly. His boots are set on the floor, the helmet activator right beside it, and both his element guns hanging on a hook. Gently sitting down at the desk, he rouses the holo-screen to working order, and swipes to see what the Terran’s been working on.

               “Octan, something about a mouse or a rat, a weird park on a ‘cloudy island’. This is all just weird humie nonsense?” Rocket asks himself, flabbergasted. He turns the stupid thing off, and swivels to the other part of the console desk. His eyes set on a thin piece of paper with a couple of pictures on it. They’re all Peter and Kitty, smiling and laughing together. For a second, Rocket smiles, too, and gently places it back where he found it. Next to the photos is a box, almost like a shipping crate, that houses the tape case labeled “Awesome Mix, VOL. 2”, a hard copy of the movie “Sleeping Beauty” and a primitive Terran voice amplification device, a micro-phone, he thinks, covered in checkerboard tape and ‘IOWA’ written in ink.

               Off in the distance, Rocket picks up a light whistling tune, but pays it no attention as he gets off the chair to check out more of Peter’s stuff.  In the corner is a couple of suits, some pairs of pants and no less than 20 shirts, all organized neatly. The raccoon steps over and examines the material of one of the suits. It’s soft, and the texture reacts to his touch, leaving behind a trail. “He has a lot of outfits for a wanted criminal ‘n all.” Or were they still on Nova’s hit list? No idea whatsoever.

               “Sugar high…” echoed in the nearby hallway, followed by imitations of a drum or a laser or something. Rocket quickly came up with an excuse for being there, as scampering out would cause more suspicion. What would work? He kept on drawing blanks, calling on past ideas that had failed with said person. But he’d probably fall for them again, the humie had the memory of a newborn goldfish.

               “Sugar sl- W-what are you doing in here?” Peter had finally made it into the room, shirtless, wearing a pair of orange boxer-briefs, and holding a donut with two bites missing. He looked suspicious, but not in an angry way, so Rocket calmed his hackles right after he stopped talking.

               “Standing.”

               Peter wasn’t convinced. “Yeah. Sure. Because your little thief-y paws seem perfectly capable of settling with ‘standing’ and nothing else.” Busted. He probed his mind for a viable reason, something believable. Honestly the actual reason he came in here was slipping away. Rocket sighed and clasped his hands together. “I was looking for any snacks you might be hidin’ in here.” He admitted, because he was still hungry. And that seemed to placate him. Quill rolled his eyes and fell, sitting, onto his bed, patting a couple of times to his side for Rocket to sit.

               “Figured as much.” The raccoon jumps on to the padded surface and plops down, letting his legs dangle over the side. And they sat there. For almost a whole minute, neither of the two saying a single word. Rocket hated this silence; it opened up his mind to wander and think, and his thoughts never seemed to lead anywhere good. Peter breathes out in defeat, and widens his eyes as he begins to speak.

               “Sooo….”

“What.” Rocket has an inkling of where this is headed, but he stays silent in anticipation.

“You know what I said back there was a joke, right?” He questions the Procyon, and mutual embarrassment flows through the two. “I was kidding, kinda jumping the gun about the tension in that situation, you know, and then you scuttled away.” Rocket twitches his ear, and responds angrily “That doesn’t sound like an apology.”

“What do I have to apologize for? This is my ship, I had just come out of the shower, and you were ragging on me like a little kid. And I distinctly remember you drooling all over me like a Pavlovian creep.”

“Come on, humie. Get over yourself. I was just starin’ off into space, ‘s all. And I wasn’t _drooling_ over you, just didn’t expect to see your tumescent Terran anatomy. Especially right after, you know..”

“After what.” Quill’s really gonna make him say it.

“Halfway after... ah… release.”

Peter visibly shuddered at Rockets words, and rubbed behind his ears, a blush creeping up the side of his neck. “Actually it was more like halfway there.” Rocket narrowed his eyes at that reflection, and waited for more of an explanation. “Ah, hell. I had lots of awkward conversations with the ravagers, kinda like this one here, and never really got a straight answer on whether or not Yondu had surveillance in there. I did it off the ship, or behind closed doors, in my quarters.” He finishes up, and turns back to his pastry, hiding his thoughts behind the food.

“Okay, first of all, gross. I didn’t need your whole nasty backstory, Quill.”

“Shut up. Everyone does it. Don’t think I don’t know what you do while you’re not experimenting with all your weird gadgety shit in there.”

“What? I don’t, I mean, usually I…” Rocket fumbled around for the correct way to explain himself here. Peter smirked at him and winked. “And don’t think I didn’t see you getting all excited there, too, dude.” “Yeah, well, I uh…” The raccoon scratches at himself a little, and the material of his jumpsuit tents as his body stars to react. “Dude, you’re getting hard right now! What the hell?”

“I can’t control my body, nothing that happens to it makes sense here.” He was getting more uncomfortable by the second, and glances over to Peter for reassurance. His orange briefs had a bulge to them, but nothing more than what was ordinary for him. The Terran clammed up for a couple of seconds, then asked quietly, “Are you… are you attracted to me?” Rocket tittered nervously through his teeth. “What?” “It’s okay, man. A lot of people are, because face it, I rule.” Peter says that with a husky voice, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head to the side. He reaches out a finger to poke Rocket in the shoulder, taking care not to brush the implants.

“You gotta get over yourself, ya big idiot.” He growls, but then snorts in real laughter, some of the tension lifting. Peter laughs right along with him. ”I’m serious. Do you, you know, like me?"

“Kinda?”

 Rocket tentatively tells the truth, because his body has been self-damning up to this point. And his dick is fully hard, and sticking up in his suit like a mountain. And Peter stops laughing. He smiles over at the smaller being, and strokes behind his ear. “Cool.” He stops stroking the fur, and Rocket almost tells him to not stop, because it’s pretty calming for him. “So do I.” The raccoon looks up at him, to see any glimmer of humor, some tick to tell him that Quill’s being a dick and playing him along, but finds none. He’s being genuine. And that makes Rocket want to cry just a little.

He reaches his hand up to flick Peter on the nose with one of his claws, and then pulls down the zipper of his tracksuit. “Whoa, man. What are you doing so fast?” The taller one is red-faced, and is decidedly looking above Rocket’s face, but in his opinion, the briefs look just a bit tighter in anticipation. He finishes opening his suit, and peels it off his fur, taking care around his tail and sighs in relief. The raccoon’s dick sticks out like a beacon, and has a dark red tip. The weirdest thing is, it looks almost human, and is pretty big for a being Rocket’s size. The testicles are covered in fur, but that ends at the base of his penis.

“It was getting pretty uncomfortable down there. Besides, I saw you out there, only right that I’d return the favor.” Peter scoffs at that remark, and leans a bit closer, noticing the scar near the frenulum. “Are you circumcised? I can’t believe they’d do that to you.”

“Yep. And they also made it look different. I guess to look human. That’s why I was surprised when I saw yours.” He shrugs as he says that, and glances over to the human next to him. He’s visibly blushing now, and his blue irises are tight rings around his dilated pupils. And when he gets to his feet, the briefs are definitely tented outward a bit. Peter extends his hands down, leans over, and pulls the last article of clothing off, tosses it over to the side of the room, and stands in front of the Procyon.

Oh. He wasn’t kidding.

Before, he had seen Peter’s dick when it was nearly soft. Now that it started to rise, Rocket could tell it wasn’t even close to its full size then. The head darkens to a deep pink color in contrast to the rest of the shaft, and with each heartbeat, the whole cock spasms and engorges a bit more. His foreskin was a lighter pink, and had already retracted below the head.  Peter starts to say “I was getting a little un…” but stops and plops back down on the bedding.” Sorry, it had started to sound like a bad porno.”  From up close, Rocket sized up the half-hard penis. It had reached a length of about 7 inches, and was almost as thick as PVC piping. And near the base, where the light brown-red coarse hair began, were two faint indents, like… bite marks. “Was that the Askevaarian that did that?” He asks, wincing while pointing to the spots from about a foot away.

“Yeah, I think so.” Peter responds, and Rocket sees him touch the marks, then slide his hand up the shaft. The raccoon glances up at his face, not trusting himself to watch while Quill’s helps his cock grow to its full size. He swallows a bit, steeling himself for the next question.”

“Uh... Can I… uhm…” Rocket almost whispers his incomplete request, but when he examines Peter for an answer, the Terran shrugs his shoulders as permission. So he coughs a little, readies his nerves, and just sorta reaches out and pokes the head with a claw.

“Ow. Seriously, dude?” Peter slaps his paw away, and rubs the area gently. “Why would you do that?”

“I messed up. Sorry.”

This time, Rocket grasps the shaft softly with one of his paws, and slides it up, slowly. It works remarkably like his own, except the skin slips over the head with each stroke, causing Peter to shift in his seat a little. And the size! Once he began to touch the Terran’s dick, it expanded, getting still longer and a bit thicker as well. It was well over 8 inches in length, and was thick enough for Rocket to feel sympathy for his previous exploits. Or was it jealousy?  Honestly he wasn’t sure at this point. But it was big. Way bigger than his own (although that was to be expected) and a vein ran from the tip down to the base, curling around the shaft to end facing his chest. And the testicles were huge, hanging down from behind, looking like two hard-boiled eggs (not that big, but close enough). “Everything about you is huge, and everything about me is small.”  He drags the skin down, then up again, holding his claws out as to not scrape the big complainer.

“Ah… That feels… kinda…” Peter breathes out, and flinches with each stroke

“Good?” Rocket finished his partner’s sentence with a grin.” That’s sorta the point, humie.” He glides his hand a couple of millimeters above the head, and brushes the slit with his fur. And Peter straight up moans. The raccoon feels the skin twitch, and when he moves his head to inspect he gets a close-up view of something clear dribbling out and down the frenulum. “What was that?”

Peter rolls his head, and looks down at his own dick, his cheeks red with pent-up lust. “It’s uh… precum. Nnngh…it comes out when Terrans are aroused, like a sort of lubricant.” Rocket pokes at the viscous liquid seeping out of the slit, and recoils when it sticks to his paws and leaves a trail. And Rockets own dick throbs, untouched up to then. “I’m… gonna try somethin’ here.” Rocket says, gripping the shaft with both hands. He scoots closer, sits upright, and leans down, above the head of Peter’s penis, glistening with pre. And he flicks out his tongue, drifting across the tip, making Quill shudder and grunt under his breath. The precum tastes like salt, and there’s an undertone of musk, kinda like what Peter smells like all the time. It’s… not that bad, actually.

The Procyon laps at the head, spiraling his paws up and down the shaft as he does so. Suddenly, he feels pressure on his own dick. He stops to look down, and sees Peter’s hand gently enveloping the dark red member, stroking up and down. And flark, does that feel great. He growls throatily, and turns back to the bigger man, opening his mouth to swallow his cock. He makes it about three inches before realizing he needs a lot of practice. But the Terran doesn’t seem to mind. “Ahhhgh…” He makes out, and thrusts gently into the raccoon’s mouth, pulling on Rockets dick with a faster speed. At this rate, neither of them are going to last long. Every movement of Peter’s hand sends pulses of pleasure throughout his body, and the familiar tension builds up in the pit of his stomach.

“Ahhm gonna..” He says through the large object in his mouth, and thrusts hard as he comes, waves of release arcing through his nerves. Peter continues to stroke through, and pushes his dick in the others mouth with a little less control.  The dick swells to an even larger size, getting ready to shoot. “Rocky… I’d, uhhgh, let go for a bit. I’m gonna cum, and I give out a lot…” Peter moans as he warns the smaller body, and Rocket slides the cock out, himself still pushing out a bit of fluid, and watches with fevered fascination as Peter clenches his eyes and jaw. He gasps, and humps forward, and the entire penis shudders, pushing a small glob of his seed out to land near Rockets eyes. Another gasp and a moan, and a huge shot spurts from the tip, landing all over the fur of his muzzle. Each spasm brings another large wad to drip down on his face, and Peter grunts through the ordeal, involuntarily twitching in bliss.

After about 15 seconds, the shots tapered out, the final drops of cum drizzling out and onto the head. Rocket’s face was covered in Peter’s thick semen, and every so often some would drip down onto his shoulders. They both remove their hands from each other, Peter’s bigger hand covered in the Procyon’s release. His dick has already shrunk down to normal, and the cock in front of him begins to wilt. It takes a few seconds for both of them to stop breathing heavily, and some of the semen falls into Rocket’s mouth, tasting bitter and salty at the same time. He licks up, getting some off of his nose and swallowing it with a weird look in his eyes, and Peter snorts, ‘cause apparently the situation was funny.

“You weren’t kidding about the volume, Quill.”

“Nope.”

               They both crack up at that, and Peter reaches to the bedside table for some towels to clean them up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some amount of time has passed since the last chapter. How much, you say, reader who demands to know about arbitrary information that more than likely is implied inside the writing? A little bit.  
> Maybe 5.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--Sorry, I didn't get around to putting this next chapter up for a while. I've actually had it finished for almost 2 weeks now, but work caught up with me. Anyway, here's more of my weird story. Enjoy, and thanks to all who commented:)--

Rocket wakes up to the stifling heat of fabric. And… something alive. The warmth of another body transmits and circulates, adding almost a thousand degrees to the already fur-covered raccoon. Gasping for air, he rips off the blankets and falls to the Milano floor, crunching up a couple of candy wrappers on his landing. “Ughnnnhw-what’s wrong?” a voice groans out, presumably from the lump underneath the jostled covers. And it all came back to him.

Quill.

What they did together.  
Flark.

The smaller mammal rubs his eyes in defeat and takes a deep breath. And here comes the regret and shame, like every morning. Although in this case, it’s probably closer to night than anything. Whatever. “Do ya have to sleep under 15 layers of stuff? It’s not like you’re gonna freeze or somethin’.” He complains, even though the problem’s kinda solved already. And it was nice, for a little while, to have the Terran’s company. Not like he’d ever say that out loud. He has a reputation to uphold.  
A loud rustle, then a squeaking of the bedframe alerts Rocket to Peter’s emergence. The humie sits up and stares directly at him, no doubt sifting through the events like he had almost twenty seconds ago. He smacks his tongue a bit, and yawns, itching his head. Then he responds. “I get super cold when I go to sleep. So what? You’re the one who crawled in there with me.” Nothing. Not even an ounce of shame or lost pride. Go figure. Rocket decides to test the issue. “You remember what happened, right?” He tentatively presses him. The big idiot screws his eyes up in concentration, shrugs his shoulders, and breathes out his nose.  
“Yep. You ready to eat? I’m starving.”

Priceless.  
Peter throws the covers to the side, and pushes himself off the bed. His foot lands on an empty bottle and he slips momentarily, but he catches himself in time, setting his other foot on a safer area. And he nods a bit, smiling to himself, like he’s somehow proud of the fact that he can maintain his balance in his gross room. ”Ya really need to clean up in here, Quill.” He growls, stepping on what he hopes to be clean flooring. The human kicks the bottle out of the way, but makes no effort to pick anything up. “What? Oh… uh, I probably will later. Didn’t really matter before now.” He shuffles to the wall, and opens the door with the control panel on the side, walking into the hallway.  
Completely naked.  
Rocket rushes up to him before he can take another step and grabs him by the quads of his legs. “Put something on, before you flash everyone with your weird Terran junk. The cameras, remember?” He hisses, and tries to drag him backward. The raccoon does a quick check of himself and sees that he’s not wearing anything either, but since he’s covered in fur and has a tail, he just covers up the bits on the front and continues on. Peter stops, and swivels around, giving Rocket a full-frontal view of his body, but mostly just his soft dick hanging in front of his testicles. He shut his eyes as quickly as he could.  
“My ship, my rules. I control the cameras anyway.” Stubborn flarknaard.

He turns around again, and the Procyon opens his eyes to Peter’s toned back and, well, his surprisingly well-muscled ass. “And you had my ‘weird Terran junk’ in your mouth a couple of hours ago. So shut up.” He calls out, still walking away without a single care in the entire freaking universe. Rocket sighs, and follows a couple of feet behind, reluctantly removing his tail from in front of his own equipment. Why bother, anyway? 

The lights in the hallway even out, and an overhead flickers on when they enter the galley. The empty box of Spartax Jax is, amazingly, in the recycling unit. And the floors are spotless, the counters orderly, and it smells like a fresh breeze is blowing through the area. “I like the kitchen to be clean, don’t wanna have to search for things to eat.” Peter calls, facing the refrigerator. The taller man reaches into the fridge and pulls out some broccoli (a head? Maybe a tree, who knows how to quantify it), placing it onto the center countertop. Next, he walks by Rocket, rubs the fur on his head a bit, and grabs a package of pasta shells out of the cabinets.  
The nerve of that humie. “What.” He snorts at Peter, ruffling his face back into shape. Quill shakes his head in quiet disbelief, and readies a pot of water on the stove, turning on the heat and closing a lid over it. “Your hair is really soft, is all. Plus, you were looking forlorn by yourself.” Rocket shuffles over to the seating area and climbs onto a chair. “Yeah, well don’t get used to me displaying my emotions ‘n all.” Peter rolls his eyes and walks over to join him, the food already cooking. “How could I get used to anything you do? We know basically nothing about each other.” He says, sitting himself down across from the raccoon. And Rocket can’t meet his steely gaze, deciding to instead stare at the scar on his right collarbone. It’s funny, but all of the blemishes and marks help Quill appear almost… distinguished or somethin’. When he gets hurt, his fur balls up and makes him look like a bedraggled rug. Some people get all the luck.  
Almost two minutes pass by before he speaks.  
“I ain’t telling you about my flarked-up history, humie. Doesn’t matter, anyhow.” Peter smiles, just a bit, and pats him on the hand before getting up to finish preparing the food. When he gets to his feet, Rocket is slapped in the face with the overwhelming size difference between them. “Were ya always this gigantic?” He asks, with absolutely no jealousy whatsoever. Never ever. “I was actually kinda a shrimp when I was younger. Then I exploded outward, when I was 15 or so, and everything on me grew. All of the muscles came after the Ravagers picked me off of Earth, a few years after that.” 

Suddenly the smell of garlic and spices filled the room. Even Rocket had to admit through his resentment, of well, everything, that the environment here wasn’t all bad. Maybe even good. The Terran pressed on with his answer. “I’m just a bit above average back on Earth.” He thinks for a second. “Except my dick, that’s pretty big anywhere.” He finishes up with a hint of pride, turning and winking at the Procyon. Rocket ignores that last bit, despite sorta seeing the truth in his words. Because he had up-close proof to attest to tha… Wait. No. Damn, he’s got to keep his mind out of there. “Is that where all the notes on your board came from? Terra?”  
“Yeah. Just some things that Kitty wanted me to look up.” And he was carrying the finished meal over to the table as he answered: a bunch of noodles submerged in a light cheese sauce, with broccoli on the side. Apparently he can cook. Stranger things have happened. Rocket pokes at the noodles with one of his claws when Peter sets down a bowl in front of him, and laps at it with his tongue. Yep, tastes as good as it smells. But cheese? It’s almost as if he were trying to make it taste like the Spartax Jax that Rocket likes… No. No way he did something nice for him. And not just nice, personal, too. 

Disgusting.  
But he ate it anyway. One bite in, and he could pick up hints of four different cheese varieties, just like the best snack food in the universe, and the spices only supplemented its perfection. He took another bite just to make sure it was real. And another. His throat had been tight since Peter last spoke, but that didn’t stop him from eating the delicious perfection. Pretty soon he was stuffing his face as fast as he could, neglecting normal bodily functions like breathing. Or heat, as his mouth soon told him. “Dude, you need to slow down, I just finished making that.” Peter said, laughing at the obscene rate the food was disappearing. And Rocket’s throat was closing up, burning like the binary star system near Nova. He coughed a little, and rasped out “Water” in reply. Quill’s eyes widened, and he jumped up, dashing to the cabinet for a glass. He tripped over the table leaf, and fell to the floor with a giant thud, cursing as he gets to his feet again. “Shit, sorry.” He called out, and running water started to fall, a bit muffled from the liquid fire rushing through his body.  
Through his watery eyes, Rocket could gleam out a clear circle gently approaching his face. Peter had made it back, and was holding out a cool glass to him. The raccoon accepted it gratefully, and let the water tumble through his mouth, soothing his aching throat. He downed the entire glass, as Peter watched with an anxious smile, coughed a few times, and scratched at his neck. “You good?” He asked the Procyon, and sighed quietly in relief when Rocket nodded and held up a hand as affirmation. Flark, that hurt. And the big idiot had the gall to act all worried. 

“I don’t need your sympathy or your pity. Stop doting on me.” He growls out, a little breathy, but most of the pain is gone, along with his appetite. The tightness is still there, though. And Peter raises his hands, looking affronted. “I just care about you. Sorry?” Right. He pushes the food bowl away from him, where it clinks up against his glass. Across the table, Peter rolls around a noodle with his fork, but doesn’t take a bite. And Rocket finally gets it through his thick skull: Quill enjoys being around him. Genuine-like and all.  
“Uh. Thanks, I guess.” He says, then changes the subject as quickly as he could to something less corrosive. “Are you and Kitty, you know…” He knits his fingers together to symbolize “relationship,” ‘cause he doesn’t know how to ask his real question. Or do the real hand signals, neither. And Peter doesn’t seem to care. “Nah, no, we’re just friends. Well, good friends. Maybe someday in the future? I don’t see her much, because she hates space and Earth is like a billion miles away.” Rocket nods nonchalantly in response, but the clenched-up feeling in his neck dissipates. Maybe it wasn’t because of the food? Nah, just the food. He starts to tap out a rhythm on the wooden surface of the table, but when he looks up at Peter he finds him staring kinda creepily at his face.

“Need something?”

The other person turns his head a bit awkwardly, and scratches at the hair near his ear. “Nothing, nothing. Just that you have a bit of cum near your eyebrow. Probably my bad.” He reaches out, and it takes all of the raccoon’s self-control not to flinch away as he strokes the liquid out of his fur. Rocket watched, his mouth slightly agape, as the Terran rubbed it around a bit on his fingers, seeing it trail in the air, then wiped off the residue on a napkin. Rocket breathed out slowly and widened his eyes.

“On that note, I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Yeah, you do that, buddy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--The next (and probably last) chapter should be up at some point next week. I'm also tossing some other ideas around for different stories, maybe some art, although my art skills are a bit rusty. If you loyal (hah) readers have any ideas, I'd love to hear them. Thank you!--


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The continuation of the story finally resumes. Sorry. But please enjoy.

The raccoon silently wanders down the hallways of the Milano, lost in thought. First, he ate his way into seeing Quill’s junk, which led to even more shameful activities when he tried to scope out the Terran’s nasty room. He got surprisingly good food, and immediately choked up when the big idiot mentioned “Earth chick who can walk through walls” and their plausible relationship. Then, he proceeded to flark up the already tense situation, building his walls back up instead of letting someone in for once. Rocket’s throat still felt like it had been dry cleaned by a blender. Not the most sensible metaphor for the way his day had turned out, but whatever.  
Who’s listenin’ anyways?  
The shower door appears on his right, framed by orange and blue paneling. Rocket looks to the side of the entrance, underneath the controls, and miraculously finds a towel waiting for him. Guess the humie thought ahead. Or not, he thinks, since the ship’s mainframe probably does it automatically. He taps on the glass screen, opening the doors with a mechanized hiss, and gently steps inside. The light blue patterned tile is dry on the pads of his feet, and the raccoon pulls his tail out of the doorway, the automized opening closing on its own. Overhead, the shower spigot crackles, and a heavy sprinkle of recycled water rushes down his fur, soaking him to the skin with warmth. He drifts to the center of the room and sits down, letting all of the thoughts leave his mind with the rushing water.  
As if that would work. But Rocket didn’t want to let that get in the way of what he needed to do, so he ignored it for a bit, reaching for a bottle of soap. “Mint tea-tree scent, huh. And this ain’t Gamora’s, neither.” The Procyon snaps open the lid and coughs, an overly synthetic leafy scent assailing his nose and mouth. But no mint as of yet, nice job with off-brand shampoo, Quill. He tips the container upside down, lifts it above his head, and a generous portion of clear, viscous liquid pours out, landing on his ears and eyebrows. The soap drips down, sliding down his body with the rushing water, and he rubs it around to clean his fur.

“Well, this is boring.” The raccoon says to himself. Because he never really got the appeal of getting drenched with lukewarm liquid from flark knows where, and chemical bathing brings back bad memories. But it’s ‘necessary,’ so he steps out of the way of the waterfall, and strokes the soap over his chest, taking care to avoid the cybernetic implants. Rocket’s hands drift lower, drifting over some old scars on his abdomen, and he twists around to get at his back. The soap reaches his tail, and he fluffs it out, sliding along the ridge of his tail bone. He sits down, kneeling on the tile, and his fingers bring the soap lower on his torso, nearing his cock. It’s mostly hidden by a swath of dark brown fur, but he brings it out, and swishes soap around the area carefully. His hand goes down below his sack, lathering it up, and a claw brushes up against his tight ring, making him gasp at the feeling.

Might as well. Ya never know.

He grabs for the soap again, pours it onto his open palm, and extends a finger out, pressing on the outside of the hole with his finger pad. A split second passes, and the finger slips inside, coating his inner walls with soap. He tenderly slides it in further, sighing at the movement. A second finger goes in, adding girth and pressure, and he scissors the two, opening himself a bit more. He looks around for a second before he remembers that he’s the only one in the room, and pushes a third finger in. It’s amazing how quickly his body adjusts to the new situation, and he considers adding a fourth, but the situation’s already kinda gettin’ carried away. Rocket pulls his fingers out slowly, and shudders as they pass the ring, sending a burst of pleasure through his body. A quick glance down, and yep. He’s hard again, and his red shaft sticks out of his fur like a burning flagpole.  
The Procyon ignores the growing problem, and returns to the spray of the shower head, whisking off the rest of the soap suds. He gestures at the controls, and flicks off the downpour, shaking the loose water on his fur. He slides open the door, and glances out in the hallway for passerby. But it’s only him and Peter that are here. And Groot, but he’s asleep. Also doesn’t move much yet. Rocket moves one leg outside, grabs for the towel there, and rustles the rough fabric over his damp fur, snorting when it travels over his nose and ears.  
Who cares? No one’s here anyway. The raccoon exits the shower room, and continues to dry himself off, stumbling down the halls without bothering to cover his cock. He grimaces when the towel glances off the head, but for the most part ignores the fact that it’s sticking out there, half hard.  
Mostly.

Maybe just a little bit of ignoring is going on, really.

Now he feels it, aching and itching for release. His dick is fully engorged, and every few seconds it twitches and sends a spasm up his spine. Guess it all took a few minutes to set in. Before, he was just gonna head back to his room, but…  
Peter’s here. And flark him if that doesn’t sound disgusting n’all.

He pads down the way, counting his steps and glancing at the wall mounted lights. Anything to steel his nerves. “Come on, you can break out of prison, hotwire your way into any machine in a matter of minutes, but ya can’t ask a guy to stick it in ya.” Rocket thinks, and slaps his face a couple of times to get the butterfly jitters out of his stomach. Then he plows forward, ending up at the opening to Peter’s room. He’s sitting at his desk, tapping away on the console, but apparently he’s paying enough attention to hear the raccoon coming. “You get the towel I saved for you?” Rocket scoffs at that remark, the humie’s taking credit for a machine’s hard work. “Ya mean the ship saved for me. You didn’t do anything, stop lyin’.” And Peter swivels around in his chair, his eyebrows arching in disbelief.  
“What are you talking about. The Milano? I have to do everything myself, she’s like 20 years old.”  
“What, are ya sayin’ that…” 

No no no no. Wait.

“Yeah, I do things for people. No big deal, you just don’t notice on the account of your nose being shoved halfway up your ass.” Peter looks affronted as he says that to Rocket. Good. This is already going better than he ever thought it would. “Yeah, well I uh… um…” He splutters for a second, and then the humie starts crackin’ up, like a joke was told or somethin’ (And not the raccoon’s pathetic ability to talk, neither). 

“Are you always gonna be surprised by people being nice to you?”

And the truth hits the Procyon like a shot from the Hadron Enforcer: the Terran cares for him. Even though he’s never opened up to the big guy, he still wants to be around him, wants to take care of him. Not a single living being since Lylla has ever tried as much. And that was all it took to solidify his feelings back to him. Not sure what those feelings are, but hey, let’s run with them for the time being, right?

Yeah. We’re doin’ this.

For real.

Rocket scratches at his ear, and slinks toward the other person. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.” He says to Peter in response. Not exactly a love song, but he ain’t the preachy type, anyways. The raccoon makes it to the chair where Quill’s seated, and climbs up onto his lap, facing his chest (flark he’s big, the Procyon’s at eye level with his chin). Peter narrows his eyes at Rocket, who has his neck craned to meet his gaze. “Uhh… What are you doing?” And he shakes his head, a snort resonating through his whiskers. He lifts up his paws in a ‘think about it’ gesture, which probably looked like a shrug. Context fills in the gaps, and the humie’s eyes widen. Underneath his tail, Rocket feels something twitch to life. Yeah, we’re in business now (gross).

“Soooo…?” He prods Peter’s chest for an answer, or at least a verbal one.

“Nah, I’m good.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of this story. And now officially the longest amount of time I've spent on any one thing. I probably owe my English teachers an apology. To you readers as well. I'm sorry this took so long. But in an attempt to make things a little better, I wrote a sort of extra story to go along with this one. Not that it's good or anything, but it's there. Or here, I guess.  
> Thank you for reading!

What. Of all the ways Rocket thought this would go, Quill’s choice was the path unforeseen. Well, he sort of chose, anyway; his voice was shaky and the blush creeping up his neck spoke otherwise. Plus, the raccoon couldn’t ignore the feeling of Peter’s hardening cock pressing up against his spine. “What the hell do ya mean, ‘no?’” He all but shouts at him. That came out wrong. But still!

“I’m like twice your size!” 

“So what? You think I care?” Peter looks down at him, and then lower at his torso, Rocket’s own dick was hard as a rock still, and pressed into the Terran’s navel. “Apparently not.” He says, the blush finally reaching his cheeks. “But it’s kinda a big deal.” The Procyon slaps at his collar bone. ”Get over yourself.” He growls. Peter raises his hands in defense. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just really need to know you want to go through with this. Consent, and all.” Oh. So now you want to grow a conscience, huh. “Yeah,” Rocket sighs in exasperation. “I really do. Plus I’m all ready and stuff, I got cleaned up in the shower. And prepared or whatever.”

Peter started laughing at the closing of that final remark. “Really?” He asks Rocket, who blinks a couple of times, his face burning up. “Yeah, I mean, why not?” “Because, wait, hold on, I need to show you.” He pushes the raccoon to the edge of his lap, onto his knees. The Terran’s bursting penis flings up, hitting himself in the stomach before ricocheting off, but he pays no attention to it. And it looks so much bigger to Rocket from this angle, saluting his own smaller red member at almost a 90 degree angle with his body. “Okay, now put your hand on my dick.”  
When hell freezes over, if ya ask like that. “Why th’ hell would I do that?” He says, recoiling back in disgust. Like he wasn’t planning to do anything else. “Just do it. Come on, it’s not for any weird kink.” 

Alright. Since you begged for it n’all. Rocket reaches forward, and places his hand vertically on the thickest part of the pink shaft, about halfway down. His paw barely hides the thickness of Quill’s cock, and there’s still quite a bit of length left before it meets his body in the strawberry-brown curls.

Oh. This might be a problem. 

Too late, his mind’s already made up. “Whatever, you big pervert.” He says, taking his hand off of Peter. “No that’s not what I…” Peter begins to stutter, but the Procyon doesn’t give him a chance. “Ya think I can’t handle anything, just like the rest of the team. I’ve been through more than any of you combined, with all the experiments and what not.” He takes a deep breath, and readies himself to continue his tirade, when Peter cuts him off, pressing his lips against the raccoon’s open mouth. The sensation of his soft skin against the fur of his face sends waves of calmness through his body. It’s warm as a gentle breeze, comforting, and even the short cropping of hair around Quill’s mouth adds a nice texture. 

Peter detaches slowly with a quiet breath. “We’ll take it slow. Alright?” He affirms, then smiles, and Rocket finally realizes why so many people end up in bed with the legendary Star-Lord. The raccoon slides off of his legs and gently lands on the floor as the Terran rises to a standing position. And even with him standing at his tallest on his back paws, he’s still at eye level with Quill’s mid thighs. This is mortifying. But no, that doesn’t matter. It’s okay. He is led over to the king-size bed holding the humie’s oversized hand, and manages to avoid all of the clutter, which seems to be easier now than a couple of hours ago. “Did… did ya clean up around here?” He guesses as they both take a seat, facing each other in the middle of the sheets.

“A bit.” He responds simply, then reaches over to his nightstand, rolling open the first drawer. Rocket looks around to see the bottles and garbage put in a pile next to the overflowing trash receptacle. All that’s left on the floor is his backpack and a bunch of extra blankets. Nothing bad to step on anymore, either. Maybe he found his reason to clean up the place. And the raccoon smiles, staring at the pile of blankets on the floor until a snap of a bottle being opened catches his attention. Peter’s holding a small bottle of clear liquid in his right hand, and his eyes are soft, staring back at him with blue pools he could almost melt into. “Come here, I gotta get you ready for this.” He says with a quiet, almost husky tone, and moves them closer together, his left hand pushing Rocket forward. 

“So, how’s this gonna work. Do ya just sort of stick it in or somethin’?” Perfectly honest question. Peter stops for a second, and sighs, covering his eyes with the hand not currently holding a bottle.” If you’re gonna talk, please don’t be as blasé as you normally are, it’s really hard to do this as it is.” 

“What’s wrong with the way I talk? ‘S not like I’ve ever done this with a guy.” He responds, and the Terran gently lowers Rocket to the covers, laying him on his back carefully.

“Well, I have, so just follow my lead and trust me, alright?”

The raccoon nods, and lays his head back on the pillows. And he can’t see anything that’s happening. So he waits, spread-eagled, ready for whatever Star-dork has to do. Not anxious at all. He leans his head up and spies on Quill, rubbing his hands together, each covered with a liquid that reflects the low light overhead. The humie stops, apparently finished and crawls a bit closer on his knees, his cock sticking out like in some low-budget illicit movie Rocket totally didn’t bootleg from him. Peter reaches forward, getting closer, and the Procyon finally snaps under the pressure.

“Wait.”

Peter instantly holds his movements and looks him straight in the eyes. ”You okay?”

“Maybe. Why did I have to put my paw on your dick? We coulda just put our hands together or somethin’.” Peter turns his head to the ground, then comes back, a small smile on his lips.”Yeah, like that’s any fun.”

Quill extends his hand and places it gently against Rocket’s thigh, then drags it upward, ghosting his burning red erection. When he makes contact, the cool surface of the liquid sends shivers up and down his body, and a small moan escapes his mouth. The Terran strokes up and down at a slow pace, getting him used to his touch, then slides his hand lower, resting a fingertip on the outside of his opening. The raccoon meets his gaze in affirmation, and Peter gently slips into the tight ring of muscle. Rocket shudders and tries to get used to the feeling of another being touching him. Since he’s not the one who’s creating the sensations, he feels 100 percent aware of them. Each little twitch goes deeper, creating a subtle sense of pressure inside of him. And he likes it.  
Rocket shifts downward, forcing more of his finger inside. Peter’s eyes widen, expecting the descent to be much harder, but the Procyon’s body accepts the intrusion with grace. He gently adds a second finger in, and the smaller mammal growls throatily, his dick twitching and aching for release. “Okay, so it’s like your body was meant for this or something.” Peter says, two fingers fully inside of who he’s talking to. 

“Yeah, I don’t think I want to do this anymore.” Rocket says with a sort of fake grimace.

Luckily Quill sees through his tone. “Shut up, you know I’m awkward as hell” And they both start laughing, the sound echoing off the walls. 

This is so surreal, ya know? He was laughing with a Terran, a planet several light years away, while that big beautiful idiot currently had two fingers inside of him. Halfworld never trained him for any of this. But he wasn’t complaining. Still laughing, Peter calmly presses in a third finger, adding that much more of the stretching sensation. And Rocket arches his back, the feeling traveling through his entire frame like electricity. His eyes blur for a second, then come back to life with ultra-clarity. Every shadowed muscle, every mark on his fellow guardian (and if he didn’t think about making his own marks, something would be terribly wrong) completed him, made him whole. 

He groans and slides along the fabric of Peter’s bedspread, the fingers inside him red-hot, his own heartbeat resonating with the touch of his partner. His Star-Lord. “Nng jsutshfgnstfsng” comes out of his mouth, a desperate plea through his nose and closed jaw. Peter glances at him, hearing the noise, and his face spasms, his eyes getting darker. Down below, his cock twitches and leaks a bit of precum, staining the sheets. “What…did you say?” the Terran gets out, his tone husky and with a lot of breath. Rocket adjusts his position again, and tries one more time to speak what’s on his mind.   
“Just do it already.” You’re really gonna make me say it.

“Please.” And at that last remark, Peter nods almost feverishly, swallowing in anticipation. Slowly removing his fingers from Rocket, he reaches for the bottle again. Rocket waits in agitation, his body growing cold, all the heat pooling near his dick. He closes his eyes, slowing down his breath like he used to, then opens them again. And the first thing he sees is Quill, kneeling in front of him, his beautiful body in the low light, every inch of him perfect. He’d also have to be an idiot to miss his pretty impressive cock sticking out of his frame, glistening in the light. The raccoon nods, fully ready, and Peter leans down, the tip of his head making contact with his hole. It’s hot, and wet, and when he pushes ever so slightly in, Rocket sighs with the intrusion. Peter moves farther in, and Rocket is stretched wider than he’s been before, as the head pops in. Rocket can’t move, can hardly speak, all of his energy is put into noticing and experiencing this miraculous being inside of him. And the Terran has his eyes closed, his leg muscles seizing and restraining the rest of his body.

“Flark, Rocket. I’d....could. I could lose it right now.’ He breathes out, and another centimeter of him goes in. The Procyon is watching, entranced, first at Peter’s face, full of expression, but then at his cock slowly pushing. It’s hard, thoroughly engorged, and that huge vein running across the length of it is pulsing, he can feel it against his opening. Every movement sends shudders through his form, every moment he stays still, the raccoon is overwhelmed by the extent of it all, the fullness.

“Hold on, I’m gonna move so I don’t crush you.” Quill says to him, then picks him up, still partly inside of him, laying down gently on the bed. Now Rocket could see all of him. Peter’s sitting up at an incline, with Rocket on top of him, his hands holding him steady. His face wrenched up, trying to control himself, but every so often he’d twitch a bit and send spasms of pleasure through Rocket. The raccoon loved everything that he saw. Gravity was pulling him down now, and more and more of Peter was pressed up inside of him. “I’m not going to last very long. Just warning you.” The larger guardian coughed out.

Same here, flarknaard. He felt that same tension rising in his abdomen, but it was stronger now than it had ever been before. “Shut up, Star-Lord. Make it good.” He growled out after a few breaths. 

Peter smiled, a closed lip smirk. Shit, he’s hot. 

Then he pushed up.

The friction from the movement lit the tension in his body on fire. He was still holding back, but every thrust had ferocity behind it. Rocket was groaning and moaning, and probably making all sorts of unsexy noises, but Peter was grunting right back. He would thrust up, almost fully in, and Rocket would angle towards him, every single hit landing on his prostate and making his dick twitch. After about twenty or so of these, the raccoon was on a hair trigger. Apparently so was the Terran.

“I’m gonna cum, Rocky. Hold on.” And once he said those words, Rocket lost it, his dick bursting out ropes of white all over Peter’s stomach and chest. His hole was clenching in time with his release, and he could feel even more how big Peter’s cock really was. Still riding out the waves of pleasure, he watched down as Quill’s face clenched up, a final moan escaping his mouth as he came, burning-hot, inside of him. The weirdest thing? Rocket didn’t mind at all. Every burst of his seed made him feel more connected. As soon as he thought that, he knew he was well and truly flarked in the head. The Procyon gently pulled himself off, grimacing at the last step, and laid down to rest on top of the big idiot, who was miraculously quiet.

Everything was messy.

But everything was sort of..... okay. Nice, actually.

Rocket moved his tail up to brush against Peter’s left hand, who ruffled the fur in what could only be called satisfaction. Down below, Star-Lord’s dick had lost its turgor pressure, resting on the raccoon’s leg. And the sheets were an absolute mess. 

Good.

He decides to break the silence. “Is… is it okay if I, ya know, sleep somewhere in here? It gets kinda lonely in my room.” Peter arches his head up, looking Rocket in the eyes, with less of the striking blue purple mix, and more of just… warmth. 

“I kinda already made you a place to sleep over there.” He gestures over to the pile of blankets next to the bed. And it’s so simple, his reply, but so full of thoughtfulness that Rocket is finding it hard to breathe, to talk normally.

“Thanks.” Maybe simple’s a good thing.

At least for now.

“G’night, Rocket.”  
“Good night, Star-dork.” He slides off the bed and into the nest. He curls up, surrounded by the carefree and the soft, without a single thought in his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments if you feel like it. But only if. This ain't a hostage situation.  
> 


End file.
